


Best Kind of Medicine

by WritingYay



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Rocketman (2019)
Genre: A handjob involving feet but no sexualisation of feet anywhere, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flu, Fluff, Footjob, Frottage, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe a praise thing, Not a Clue, Sexy Times, Sickfic, Vomiting, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 11:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19294681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingYay/pseuds/WritingYay
Summary: Who would've thought that Richard Madden was the best treament for sickness?Taron really should've guessed. The bastard was good for everything.





	Best Kind of Medicine

“Mum,” Taron sighs down the phone, extremely aware that frustration was starting to creep into his voice. He pulls it back with a hacking cough that makes his bones shudder. “Will you please stop worrying? M’fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Tina says, seriously. “You sound it.”

He goes to convince her for the fiftieth time that _no, she doesn’t need to come back from holidaying in Cornwall with his Dad for their wedding anniversary_ and _yes, if his flu gets any worse he will ring the NHS helpline to make sure he doesn’t have pneumonia_ before his lungs give out. Unfortunately, that is not an exaggeration. It feels like knives being driven through his sternum and he can’t even pause to catch his breath before it starts again. He knows that his Mum hearing him _die_ will just make her worry more, but for the love of god he cannot stop coughing.

Luckily, he manages to find a short window to rasp: “I can look after myself.”

Tina makes a wounded, yet sorrowful noise on the other end of the line. “Oh love. Have you slept?”

Has he slept? Has he fuck.

“I got a few hours.” He lies. “Lying down seems to take the pressure off my chest, but then it drives all the mucus into my sinuses and then I can’t breathe.”

His Mum is silent for a few tense seconds. “Get Holly to bring you some supplies.”

“I can’t, she’s in Portugal with her boyfriend.”

Tina gives him a hyperbolic sigh and then Taron can hear a lamb bleating. “I’ll sort it. Please, for my sanity, stay in bed.”

Taron snorts, and instantly regrets the action when it causes his throat to clench in retaliation. Blood was dripping down his oesophagus, he was sure of it. “Oh god, Mum, please don’t bother anybody?”

“Never mind what I’m doing!” She snaps, and then the bleating quietens like she’s moved inside. “Stay in bed?”

“I plan to.” Taron replies sleepily, and tries to drown himself in his goose-down pillows. “I love you.”

“Love you too, baby.” Tina coos, and seems resigned on her son taking care of himself. “I’ll call you later. Hope you start to feel better soon.”

“Me too.” Taron rasps, and feels overwhelmingly teary when the line clicks dead. 

Well, shit.

It was a Saturday, and Taron had been feeling this miserable since Wednesday night. He’d been out on a date with a lovely girl that evening, and hadn’t thought about how she’d sniffed her way through dinner until it was too late. Her lips had tasted slightly like hot lemon when he’d kissed her goodnight, and then he’d woken up on Thursday morning with an aching ball of claustrophobia sitting on his ribcage and a cheese grater sliding down his throat. How he had reached this point was pretty unknown considering he’d had a shit-load of Vitamin C for the last two days. The NHS website had been lying to him, and now Taron felt like death.

His bedroom was stuffy with sickness due to his adamant decision to quarantine himself, even though he lived alone. Taron was lonely, hot, nauseas and blocked. And gross- very, very gross.

Netflix has the audacity to ask Taron if he’s still watching when the credits of his latest episode of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ roll. He stabs the affirmative with a scoff, because what the fuck else could he be doing? He would watch just one more, and then he would sleep. 

Eight episodes later, Taron closes his laptop with a huff and gulps down some more water. It felt like his head was independent from his body, and there seemed to be barrier over his sense of touch. Reality slipped into a dream-state, with his life fuzzy around the edges and faraway.

_Knock, knock, knock_

Taron groans. He was sick and tired and the last thing in the world he wanted to do was make someone a cup of tea and listen to them drone on about bin collections and the weather. 

The doorbell rings. Taron freezes. 

Nobody ever rang the doorbell. Taron had put a sticky label over it, saying it was broken. It wasn’t, of course, it was Taron’s way of differentiating friends and strangers. The most important people in Taron’s life knew that the doorbell worked fine, and that they should press it to get Taron’s attention. Old friends and the press would sensibly follow the sign and just knock, which meant Taron knew to ignore them. Genius.

Except it wasn’t, because it meant Taron would have to get out of bed. It couldn’t be his parents, or Holly, so Jamie maybe? Elton was in America, and Hugh had been in London recently but Taron had been forced to cancel their dinner together due to unforeseen work commitments. 

He peels himself off the sheets and shivers violently in the warmth of his room. This flu had truly knocked him for six. A blanket goes around his shoulders and he holds it together under his chin tightly. Each step to the front door felt like a spike shooting up through his nerves and piercing his brain. The door handle was cool to touch when Taron clenches his fingertips around it and pulls.

Richard fills the doorframe, his hair freshly washed and falling in curls and a Boots carrier bag swinging between his fingers. He takes his other hand out of his pocket to sarcastically do jazz hands when Taron’s mouth falls open.

“You bastard,” Taron can’t help but laugh, shuffling to the side for Richard to squeeze through. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area!” His best friend calls back over his shoulder as he walks into Taron’s kitchen. The man knew the house as well as his own; spending lazy weekends together had paid off and now Richard swanned around the place like he owned it, even though the majority of time they spent at the house was taken up by fucking. 

Taron wanders after him with a frown, his focus firmly concentrated on the Boots logo. “Really?”

“Nah,” Richard shrugs, and starts rifling through the pharmacy bag. “Your Mum texted Elton saying you were sick- she’s panicking, by the way- and so Elton phoned me t’come and look after you.”

He starts to fling various products onto the kitchen counter- tissues, Lemsip Cold and Flu tablets, Olbas Oil, Strepsils and then… chocolate digestive biscuits?

Richard spots Taron eyeing up the biscuits warily and throws his hands up in the air.

“Your Mam recommended them to me?”

Taron swallows heavily. “She used to give them to me when I was sick, and now they just remind me of throwing up.”

“You look pale as fuck,” Richard tells him and abandons the products to lean his palms on the kitchen counter, a concerned smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. “M’kinda glad she told me to get them. Well, told Elton to tell me to get them.”

“I can’t believe you’re all conspiring against me.” Taron murmurs mournfully, and tightens his blanket shawl around his shoulders to hide how badly he’d started to shiver.

Richard just gives him a puppy dog frown that makes Taron feel even worse. The older man moves to crowd closer to Taron, placing one hand on his waist to keep him upright and the other under his chin to study his eyes.

“Give me a break, Tina was worried about you and now so am I.” He drops a kiss against Taron’s slick temple. “And now you’re swaying.”

Taron huffs a sigh and pillows his head on Richard’s shoulder. “Feel sick.”

“Hmm.” Richard chuckles and pulls back to shove his purchases into the bag. “Now you tell me.”

They make the laborious trip back up to the master bedroom, made all the more painful by Richard stepping on the trail of Taron’s blanket fortress and nearly garrotting him. Eventually, after a futile but quick trip to the bathroom thanks to Taron dry retching into his hands on the top step, the two men make their destination. Richard sits him down on the end of the bed and critically looks him over.

“Fuck me, you’re attractive.”

Taron snorts, and then groans at the way the vibration rips the raw skin from the inside of his throat.

“Shut your face.”

Richard pulls his hoodie off with a bark of laughter until he’s standing before Taron in grey sweatpants and a Nirvana t-shirt. He’s not wearing his glasses, and there’s a fading bruise etched into his right collarbone, but a heady stab of want permeates Taron’s abdomen through the nausea. 

The Scotsman grabs the glass of water Taron forgot about from the bedside table and hands it over. His head disappears into the multitude of pharmacy products again to pull out the flu tablets, and pops out two to place them into Taron’s outstretched palm. 

“Swallow.” He orders, seriously. Taron can’t help but raise his eyebrows suggestively.

“Haven’t heard that in a couple of months.”

Richard’s eyes widen comically before he gives his friend a very pointed _look_. “Get your mind out the gutter, lad.” 

He yelps as Taron tries to weakly swat him on the arse as he moves away.

Taron forces the tablets down his throat. Shuffling indicates Richard trying to sort the bed’s pillows out, but all Taron can focus on is how fast the room’s spinning. He inhales deeply and then blanches when his sinuses contract and he chokes on his own blocked nose. Clearly hearing the wet cough, Richard leans across the bed to place a warm hand between Taron’s shoulder blades.

“You good?”

Taron cannot smell the sweetness of the chocolate digestives through the plastic bag, there’s no fuckin’ way, but his brain starts to convince him otherwise. He pictures grainy biscuit chunks and the nauseating artificial tang of the chocolate. Memories of being unwell as a child storm his vision and then- oh fuck, no, not now, not in front of-

“M’gonna vom-” Taron mumbles, and then whines when Richard bounds over to haul him to his feet. Everything whirls into disformed shapes as he gets herded into his bathroom, and he’s not even properly settled on his knees when his stomach turns painfully. 

In the back of his mind, Taron panics about his best-friend-turned-booty call watching him throw his guts up, but more pressing matters overtake it. His fingers dig into the sides of the porcelain, his blanket pooling around his thighs pitifully, as the sickness racks his body. Taron can’t help but groan into the bowl; his stomach kills, his throat feels like sandpaper, his nose feels like concrete and his head is _banging_.

“Aw, mate.” Richard says sympathetically from somewhere near his right ear. “That looks shit.”

“You don’t say.” Taron tries to sound deadpan, but the hoarse scratch to his voice makes him sound rather pathetic. 

The bath creaks, which means Richard’s sat on the side of it. He reaches over to rub Taron’s back soothingly and Taron feels like he’s going to melt into him. After a few more heaves that bring up no more than bile, Taron slides off his haunches to clatter his arse to the ground with legs folded behind him like a frog. It takes a while to get his breath back, but his throat burns more than before.

“Humfugh.” He says tearily. Richard stifles a laugh, his hand continuing in butterfly patterns around the t-shirt stuck to Taron’s grey skin. 

“Eh?”

“Hate throwin’ up.” Taron reiterates and his chest seizes up into more coughing. 

“You done?” Richard gestures to the toilet, and flushes it with a grimace when Taron nods minutely. The mouthwash tastes acidy swirling around his teeth and tongue but it helps to eradicate the previous bitter taste. Taron leans over the sink to splash his face with cold water, with Richard pressed up against his spine to keep him steady. To be honest, Taron trusted his own balance but there was no way he was going to complain about having a sexy Greek god who smelt like mint and that One Million cologne plastered to his body. Old habits die hard, he guessed. 

Taron’s settled back in bed a few minutes later with an oncoming migraine and a stomach that sounded like the Gruffalo (he was babysitting one Christmas and his phone had died, shoot him). Richard eyes him up with concern when his stomach somersaults again and then pokes Taron in the ribs when the younger man downright refuses to eat any of the biscuits he’d bought.

“I’ll throw up again, and I’ll make sure it’s on _you_ if you force me to eat those.” Taron warns him, and brandishes his box of Kleenex in the air for good measure. Richard surrenders his ammunition with an annoyed grunt, but lets Taron have his way. Going to sleep on an empty stomach after being sick was _not_ the best idea, Taron knew that, but the mere thought of having to chew anything was making his chin start to wobble. Uh, fuck this.

“Why don’t you get some sleep? Your pretty eyes are drooping.”

Taron nods, too tired to really appreciate the compliment. “Mm.”

Richard gently leans Taron’s body forwards to reach behind his neck and re-jumble the pillows. He gets him lying down and pulls the duvet up to his stomach; with Taron already running a fever, he didn’t want the pressure of overheating his best friend.

“Knew you wanted to get me horizontal.” Taron says, the underlying flirtatious current coming across much clearer than he’d anticipated. Richard laughs and rolls his eyes in disbelief.

“Close to death, and still trying to get me into bed? Shameless, Mr Egerton, absolutely shameless.”

Taron’s cheeks flush red, and not with fever. “If I didn’t feel like a living corpse, I would’ve bent you over this bed by now.”

Richard shakes his head with mirth. “There’s a good chance those tablets have been flushed away with your puke, but you’re gonna have to deal with the flu symptoms for four more hours, just in case they miraculously survived your stomach tsunami.”

“Gross.”

“Yep,” Richard grins at him, all perfect white teeth and an arching cupids bow. “You are indeed.”

Taron sniffs, and it sounds like splashing liquid against a patio. “Do me a favour?”

Richard looks up from the back of the Lemsip packet with furrowed eyebrows. “Anything?”

He looks so serious, Taron might die.

“Be a doll and grab me some fresh water, please?”

His slave nods and scurries off to the kitchen.

Taron slips his phone out of his pocket and flicks up Elton’s contact. He keeps it short and sweet-

_Traitor_

His eyes fall closed, heavy with a cotton-wool headache and lack of proper sleep. A loud buzz causes him to jump and then moan at the way the vibration rattles his skull. Through bleary eyes, he manages to make out:

_You are most welcome my darling_ , followed by the red heart and male couple emojis. 

Elton was a beautiful pain in the arse. He was one of very few people in the world who knew how far the friendship between him and Richard could go, and fully understood the raw intimacy between them instead of assuming a bad case of blue balls. 

Richard returns with the full glass of water and a fan he’s pulled out of one of Taron’s many miscellaneous cupboards. 

“Noooo,” Taron whines, his voice raising by a few octaves. “I’m fucking freezing.”

“That’s the flu.” Richard retorts sensibly and plugs the fan in with one clever hand. It whirs to life and Taron growls at him. “You are burning up already and I’ll be damned if ya’ fever gets worse.”

“I don’t have a fever?”

Taron’s met with raised eyebrows that make him gulp. Suddenly there’s the back of a warm hand smacked against his forehead and he can feel the corded muscles pulsating at his eye-sockets. “Wanna try that again?”

Taron sighs, knowing when he’s beaten. “Yes, Madden.” He says obediently and Richard nods, pleased. The hands fall away and he feels ever colder than before. 

“Drink some of this for me, and I promise I’ll let you sleep.”

The water is pure healing bliss, and when Taron swallows after placing the glass back down he can actually taste air instead of fire.

Richard starts to literally tuck him in. There’s a deep crease of concentration stemming from the corner of his eyes and it makes him look so much older than his thirty-two years. Panic still clung to his features, but it was less alarming than it had been when Taron opened the door.

“Thank you for this.” Taron says on an exhale, before he loses his nerve. Richard flits his eyes up from shoving duvet under Taron’s legs and gives him a genuine, content smirk.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Thought you might’ve forgotten what I look like.” He says softly, and presses his lips together when Richard looks up from the duvet with a frown. His head tilts to the side in confusion, and then stands upright again to tower over the bed.

“Hey,” Richard pouts. There’s a glimmer of hurt shining in his eyes. “I heard you were unwell and I didn’t want you to be on your lonesome. What was a’supposed to do?”

“No, that’s not what I-” Taron trails off, way too exhausted to initiate a fight. “I just mean it’s been a while.”

There’s a horrible elongated pause as Richard stares down at Taron like prey. Nothing moves in his expression to indicate annoyance, which in all fairness was expected. They weren’t together, they ‘were just friends with benefits’ but Richard refused to be labelled as such because _that sounds like you don’t mean anything to me, Taron, and you do- so much_

Then, his features drop into something resembling regret and he lowers himself onto the bed to curl up next to Taron’s knees. 

“Yeah, I should… I should be making more of an effort to see you, even to speak to ya’.” Richard promises him, and flicks his eyes to the ceiling in a breathy exhale. “I’m just busy as fuck, T, you know that." 

“Yeah…” 

Richard was balls deep in filming, and had been ever since _Rocketman_ had wrapped. Taron was having a slow year, surprisingly. His performance had been amazing and he didn’t need the countless awards stored away in his Mum’s dining room to realise that. But, he wasn’t Madden, and that really ached. 

“I miss you all the time though.” Richard reaches under the duvet to entwine their fingers together and smiles. The moment is ruined by Taron sneezing, but when were they ever perfect? 

“You don’t have to be here, you know. I really don’t want t’give this to you.” 

Richard gazes at him for a long time. “I know.” He whispers after a while and then shrugs gently. “I want to look after you. I care about you. Plus, as long as I don’t kiss you today, I’ll be dandy.” 

Taron’s lips quirk up into a small smile. “Today?” 

Their eyes meet, and Richard bites his lower lip as his features begin to sparkle. “Who knows what might happen when you’re better?” 

Two months of little physical contact was making Taron’s libido rear up into bursts of rainbows. The promise of regaining Richard back as _his_ was exhilarating, especially because Richard was giving him that gaze that signalled ripped clothing and noise complaints from the neighbours. Bastard. 

“Come on, man, what are you doin’ to me?” Taron says, and grasps a tissue from the box to blow his nose. 

Richard huffs fondly and removes his weight from the bed. With one last tuck of the duvet to keep Taron still, he blows a kiss and leaves the room, flicking the light off as he goes. The sudden fade to darkness short-wired Taron’s brain, and without warning he was falling through the mattress and into a deep sleep commandeered by a tall, muscly yet gentle Scotsman with mysterious eyes and a dialect to make anyone scream… 

For around three hours. 

Taron is catapulted back to consciousness with a jolt. His nose still felt as solid as David’s plastic surgery, but the grumbling of his stomach seemed to signify fragile hunger and not the warning alarm of organ D-Day. 

His hand stretches out to blindly to grab his phone. Taron has to blink a couple of times to condense his sight back to single-vision, but he manages to send a text to Richard to announce that he was awake relatively easily. Even the thought of shouting down the stairs was sending jarring slashes down his throat. 

A short while later, the door opens to reveal a smiling Richard and an ominous plate. 

“Morning.” Richard says easily, but stays at the doorway. 

“I wish,” Taron tells him with a snort, before gesturing to his hands. “What you got there?” 

“Dry toast.” Richard lowers the plate to prove to Taron he was telling the truth, and not trying to feed him a broth of deep-fried thistle or whatever the fuck he ate growing up in Scotland. 

“You can come closer.” Taron shuffles in his nest and offers the other man a lazy grin. “I won’t chuck up on you.” 

Richard raises his eyebrows and pads towards the bed. He waits for Taron to lever himself into a sitting position, before grabbing a pillow to place across his legs and depositing the plate on top of it. 

“Eat that,” he points at the toast, and then turns the intimidating digit onto Taron. “An’ I won’t tell Tina that you hacked your guts up earlier and refused to eat til’ now.” 

Taron gives him a very unimpressed look. “That’s blackmail.” 

“And what?” Is all Richard says; he pushes Taron’s feet out of the way to give him space as he folds his body into the small area at the end of the bed. His arms cross in challenge and he stares at Taron, unblinking. 

“Jesus Christ.” Taron shakes his head and nibbles at the crust of the toast warily. The first bite goes down easily enough, but it tastes like sawdust. 

“Better?” Richard asks when Taron’s managed to keep down the first slice. Taron flips him off and Richard cackles. 

Eventually, the toast disappears. Taron can’t help but grimace at the empty plate, already imagining how sandpaper-like it would be to throw back up. He voices this thought and Richard scrunches his nose up in disgust. 

“Fuckin’ animal.” He mutters under his breath and takes the plate from Taron’s outstretched palms to abandon it on the bedside table. The surface was like a pharmacy graveyard with two tissue boxes, one definitely empty, a crappy throat spray and another glass that could only be from _days_ ago. Oh _god_ , he really was gross. 

“You’d marry me after this, right?” Taron stretches his arms above his head and revels in the way the sliver of his exposed midriff immediately captures the other man’s attention. 

“After this, I fail to see how you could get any worse.” Richard retorts, deadpan. If he had said that before Taron’s nap, there was a good chance he would’ve burst into tears through the rushing hormones and self-pity. Now, he was rested and full (even though _fuck_ he needed a shower) and knew that amongst Richard’s harsh words was fierce underlying fondness. 

“Friends that puke together, stay together.” Taron says, and adds on a sarcastic “wahey” complete with a waiting high five when Richard gives him an unimpressed snort. 

Taron waits as Richard settles back against the wooden slats at the foot of the bed. He tosses the duvet onto the floor to air the mattress out and Taron can’t help but inwardly yelp at how disgusting his two-day old sweatpants must look. 

Then, Richard starts to straighten his legs out and Taron’s brain stops working. 

He watches the sock-clad foot edge closer and closer to him. Richard keeps rambling on about a film he’s been a sent a script for that he thinks is _perfect_ for Taron, but his leg doesn’t stop straightening. 

In all honesty, Taron doesn’t expect the high-pitched whine to fall out of his mouth when the arch of Richard’s foot cups his crotch, but the smug glow to his best friend’s skin suggests it was anticipated. 

“What are you-” 

The foot swipes upwards until the heel of Richard’s right foot is digging into Taron’s dick. His words are cut off by a breathy moan as his neck arches backwards and his thighs open up pliantly. 

“Were you listening to anything I just said?” Richard murmurs and oh fuck okay, he wanted to play _this_ game. 

“Something about a script from Phoebe Waller-Bridge?” Taron picks out random words he remembered hearing and whines, pleased, when Richard’s foot presses harder. 

“Uh huh,” Richard looks down to pick at a hangnail and carries on jerking Taron off through his sweats. He flexes his toes experimentally and smiles when Taron jars and bites his lip through a whimper. “She’s trying her hand at film screenwriting, so it should be a bloody good job.” 

“Why do you not- why, _shit Madden_ \- so why do you not want it?” 

“I’m not saying I don’t want it.” Richard frowns, and normally this sign of concentration lapse would mean he stopped touching Taron, but the wild and unfocused gleam in his man’s eyes made him re-think. He lurches the ball of his foot harder up Taron’s cock, which was now rock-solid and pulsating behind the fabric. Taron swears loudly and paws at the sheets. “I said I think the part would be perfect for you. Want me to forward ya’ the script?” 

“Yes please.” 

The ministrations cease. “Yes, what?” 

Taron groans earnestly and wriggles his hips against the still limb. He grinds his crotch against Richard’s sole and gasps at the wet beads of precome already sliding down his dick. Weeks of no sex with his best friend was going to be the death of him he _swears to god_. 

“Yes please, _Madden_.” 

Richard hums and moves his foot to cover the whole length of Taron whilst his heel cups the balls. He pushes further forward still and stops when Taron lets out a desperate cry. 

“I’ve fucking missed you.” 

Taron’s eyes shoot to meet Richard’s velvet tones and his cheeks flush with pride. Richard fucking Madden, a literal God walking amongst mortals, wanted _him_. Taron: who was 5’9” on a good day, who loved romantic comedies he could cry along to, who had a not-so secret addiction to Oreos and could tell anyone who would listen all of the Formula One Champions since 1970. 

“You’re a jammy git but you’re in my mind all the damn time and- fuck, please, SHIT, keep going _please_.” Taron’s vaguely aware that his pelvis is working in tandem with Richard’s kneading. “You’re fucking stupid to want me but I’m so glad you do because you make me the happiest man alive you bastard-” 

Richard actually laughs at that, the sod, and curls his toes around the leaking tip of Taron’s cock to squeeze. Fuck it all to hell, he’s a goner. 

Taron throws his head back against the headboard and comes hard through a full-body shudder. His back arches into a perfect bridge through a _fuck, Madden, ohmygod_ and he can see stars behind his scrunched eyes. The sheets rumbles in his grasp as his fingers curl into the material to hold on for dear life. 

Richard watches the magic unfold with a tell-tale smirk that displayed pure smugness. His eyes sparkle with mischief as Taron comes down from his high with shaky exhales to glare at him through his haze. 

“You irritating piece of shit.” Taron grinds out through sensitive aftershocks when Richard’s foot continues its gentle circles between his thighs. His own crotch was carefully masked by his right leg, bent inwards and thrown across the bed to act as a barricade between his own cock and Taron’s retaliations. This was about him, after all. 

“What? Orgasms are good for the body.” Richard shrugs, like he didn’t just make Taron come in his pants like a teenager. “I would’ve fucked you but I assumed you’d be too weak for that." 

Taron gives him a good, long look at his middle finger and grimaces at the sticky patch of wet adorning the front of his pants. “You’re a dickhead.” 

Richard grins. “I’ll just go then, yeah?” 

“You can fucking well not.” Taron hisses, and forces his screaming muscles to stand. He tugs at the crotch of his sweats and groans. “You make me shoot my load without getting your hands on me, you can fucking well help me to the shower.” 

Richard stalks towards him, unphased, and pulls the elastic waistband away from Taron’s abs to peek at his dick. It was still a bit flushed, but the satisfied sheen to Taron’s skin was worth it. Without thinking, Richard sticks a hand down there, ignoring Taron’s shocked yelp, and drags a fingertip along the skin. Then, he flits his eyes up to Taron and without breaking visual contact, sucks the digit into his mouth to swirl his lips around the saltiness. 

“Motherfucker.” Taron laughs and pushes at Richard’s shoulder. “Go and get me a towel.” 

He hobbles off to the bathroom, with buckets of more energy than he had before. Richard salutes him and disappears to the airing cupboard. 

The cage of sickness settled on Taron’s chest begins to lift, and he thanks every deity imaginable for gifting him with Richard Madden and his foot; a form of sickness treatment that everyone should have. 

**Author's Note:**

> Lmao yeah I've got no idea either. It just happened.
> 
> Hope y'all are okay.


End file.
